


Proposal Conundrum

by blythechild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship/Love, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blythechild/pseuds/blythechild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock keeps proposing and John keeps ignoring it. He can't figure out what it means to Sherlock because he couldn't possibly be serious about it, right?</p><p>This story contains elements from episodes of the show as of summer 2012.</p><p> </p><p>This is a work of fanfiction and was created for personal entertainment purposes only. I do not claim ownership over the characters contained in this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Draycevixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/gifts).



> This was a prompt given by draycevixen (although I've since lost the exact wording of it). I began writing it to cheer her up a little, but that was months ago so now this is just a surprise! gift fic instead. Sorry about dragging my feet, DV!

The first time it happened, John was bent over a bloated five-day-old body freshly fished from the banks of the Thames. Up to his ankles in rancid, boggy silt, fighting back the primitive urge to gag as he pried open the body’s mouth, he noticed a most unremarkable stain along the victim’s gum line. Rocking back on his heels, ruining yet another pair of pants with the underfoot rot of London, he definitively declared cause of death to be a rare tropical poison - and therefore _murder_ \- and not death by drowning as determined by Anderson, famed idiot of the London Met’s forensic unit. Sherlock had looked up suddenly, all birdlike attention and sharp edges, blinked twice and said it.

“Marry me.”

John and Sherlock had been flatmates for only two months and John was still struggling to catch up to the other man’s mood swings and bouts of scathing sarcasm. But even by Sherlock’s socially retarded standards, this was an odd statement. John’s initial reaction was immediately confirmed by the startled expressions of all within hearing range. Okay then… _not normal behaviour_.

John blinked, feeling a blush creep up his face, and quickly pointed out secondary indicators that confirmed his theory. While the others continued staring at Sherlock in disbelief, Sherlock appeared to dismiss the reactions entirely, instead peppering John with numerous questions about the poison’s dosage levels, manufacturing and availability. Within seconds, he had moved on and was striding up the embankment with great purpose forcing John to catch up as he barked out observations to no one in particular.

Donovan started referring to Sherlock as John’s “boyfriend” after that, no matter who was around to hear it. As ridiculous and childish as it was, the mocking put John’s teeth on edge. He worked hard to keep it to himself knowing that acknowledging it would only increase its popularity amongst the officers. But more importantly, he didn’t want Sherlock to notice his irritation. The last thing he needed was for Sherlock to turn the whole thing into some sort of semiotic dissection. 

Strangely, Sherlock seemed unaffected by the situation (which led John to believe that the man had _designed_ it for some unfathomable reason). When entering one of Lestrade’s crime scenes, Donovan had announced them over her radio, pointedly staring at Sherlock as she did so: “the doctor and his freak boyfriend are here, gov”. Despite her provocation, Donovan only received a thin smile from Sherlock that shocked both her and John with its passivity. Sherlock didn’t have the kind of ego that let those sorts of opportunities pass by. But nevertheless he ducked under the tape and ushered John forward with a hand pressed gently against his back.

“Good evening, Donovan.” Was all he said.


	2. Chapter 2

Everyone walked on eggshells around Sherlock after the Irene Adler thing but no one considered John’s feelings on the matter. 

Except Irene Adler, of course - but that didn’t count for much in John’s book. 

He found himself equally disturbed by Sherlock’s increased twitchiness and his own simmering resentment towards his flatmate for his pedestrian lust. He somehow expected… more from Sherlock. Or, perhaps, nothing at all. Only good manners prevented him from grinding salt into what everyone universally agreed were Sherlock’s wounds over ‘that woman’. Good manners and denial had produced nearly four weeks of silence in the flat aside from the occasional ‘pass the sugar’ and ‘I think that your experiment’s on fire’.

“You needn’t worry about feelings that I’m supposed to have had for _that woman_.” Sherlock announced as he peered intensely into his microscope at the kitchen table.

John had become so used to silence that the statement nearly made him upset his tea. He folded his newspaper into a crumpled mass in his lap and turned his head to stare at Sherlock. A long moment passed before Sherlock looked up from the eyepiece and focused on John.

“She wouldn’t do at all.” He said as he held John’s eyes for an uncomfortable length of time. “Not the sort that I would consider for any length of time, anyway.”

John couldn’t explain why he felt gutted as Sherlock turned back to his experiment. He blinked and tried to come up with _something_ that summed up his reaction when Sherlock spoke up again, placing a new slide under the microscope with practiced movements.

“She was nothing like you, John.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock said it again in Devonshire after the whole Baskerville fiasco. 

“Marry me.”

John was feeling especially sensitive after that case, considering the blow-up that they had had in the middle of it, and the way Sherlock had unabashedly terrorized John in order to prove his mind-altering gas theory. He wasn’t particularly disposed to cut Sherlock too much slack after all of that and abruptly told him to ‘shut it’. 

Sitting in the hotel dining room, John considered that Sherlock had said it to curry favor with the gay innkeepers within earshot, but as soon as John grumbled his response around a mouthful of steak and kidney pie, he realized that wasn’t the case. Sherlock’s face went blank, his eyes focused in the fevered way they did when he reached a maddeningly unexpected conclusion that nevertheless had been proven to be unassailably true. His own forkful of pie stopped halfway to his mouth and then lowered slowly back to his plate. Without looking away from John, he waved over one of the innkeepers and ordered a pint. John raised his eyebrows at him.

“I thought that we were leaving after dinner.”

Sherlock pushed his half finished dinner away from him and stared off into the fireplace. 

“We are. Perhaps you could drive?”

“Sure.” John was quiet, wondering if he had overstepped some invisible gruffness threshold that he didn’t know Sherlock had.

When Sherlock’s pint arrived he drank it quickly, never looking away from the firelight.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had unfailingly ruined every relationship that John had had since moving into 221B Baker Street. The detective’s success in this area was as unendingly creative as it was mind-boggling. Sherlock had terrorized quite a few with case details or by peripherally involving them in an investigation. Some he had mentally and verbally undressed upon their first meeting, and very few stood up under his scrutiny. A handful of times, Sherlock had evaluated their sexual performance based on the sounds that he heard from John’s bedroom - once he even stormed in to offer suggestions for improvement. John threatened to move out immediately and had winged Sherlock with a table lamp, but both had seen it for the half-hearted attempt that it was. Even when John’s last girlfriend had been scared off as they arrived home to find Sherlock hanging from a noose in the sitting room, John hadn’t put up much of a fight.

“What were you _thinking_?” John bellowed as his now ex-girlfriend fled, slamming the door behind her.

“I was testing the length of time one could reasonably be suspended by a noose whilst wearing a neck cuff. Your girlfriend’s histrionics mean that I have to start again.”

“Her mother committed suicide, Sherlock!”

“That was ages ago, John. She’s emotionally delicate, evidently. It’s good that you found that out now.”

John stormed off but, once again, it was mostly for show. The truth was that John expected Sherlock to end things for him, and with each failed relationship he became increasingly passive about reproaching his flatmate about his meddling. Eventually, John stopped attempting relationships and settled for the odd one-nighter when he really needed it. Sherlock never interfered with those - in fact, he never mentioned them at all.

In quieter moments, John pondered the reality of his two years with the world’s only consulting detective. If he were in an honest mood, he’d have to admit that Sherlock was his primary relationship and had been from the moment he moved into Baker Street. Sherlock’s needs were so demanding that John wouldn’t be able to sustain another committed relationship so long as they lived together. And he found that this did not bother him as much as it ought to.


	5. Chapter 5

Another Christmas happened. Mrs. Hudson decorated the house with enough nostalgia and seasonal cheer to make Norman Rockwell envious, and Sherlock was surprisingly civil to the stream of well-wishers who darkened their doorway. He even deflected another awkward pass from Molly with delicacy that bordered on genuine kindness. John had to stop himself from making an incredulous body-snatcher comment afterwards but, as always, Sherlock anticipated his thought.

“Really, John… I thought that you’d approve.” 

Sherlock was viciously wiping at his face where Mrs. Hudson had planted a lipstick-stained holiday kiss. What started as a red mark was slowly becoming a monster make-up smear across his lower jaw. 

“Molly may be stupidly fixated on me, but rejection hurts - even one as perfectly reasoned as mine. Given enough time and failed attempts, she’ll give up eventually.”

John snorted from the kitchen and returned to find Sherlock staring at him in mild irritation. “My theory is reasonable.”

“Reasonable and wrong, Sherlock.” 

John walked up to Sherlock and raised a damp cloth towards his face. Sherlock looked momentarily horrified and then relaxed as comprehension set in. He submitted himself to John’s hands but kept a critical eye on him.

“It isn’t logical for her to believe that we’ll ever be together. We are not even remotely suited to one another.”

John sighed and shook his head. “Sherlock, you’ve never wanted something that you couldn’t attain, have you?”

Sherlock seemed to stop breathing but John continued scrubbing.

“Being impossibly unattainable doesn’t factor into it. She’ll make excuses for your rejections and keep trying, basing her hope on the way that you knot your scarf one day or how you held the door for her at Bart’s once.”

John patted Sherlock’s jaw dry with the end of his towel and then held his chin to focus his attention.

“She fancies that she can’t do without you. That’s the nature of devotional obsession. She’ll probably go to her grave thinking that you were the one, Sherlock, as ridiculous as it sounds…”

“Why does it sound ridiculous?” Sherlock’s voice seemed to crack as he spoke.

“Because you’ve never emotionally needed anyone.” John patted Sherlock’s jaw and then turned back to the kitchen with his used towel. “Let alone to such a degree that you’d commit the rest of your life to them. It’s just not you.”

“I see.”

John heard Sherlock collapse into the couch as he rinsed out the rag in the sink. Probably settling in for a good pout… honestly, for such a brilliant man, Sherlock was shockingly clueless about relationships. John smiled with satisfaction that he had shown up the great man in this area.


	6. Chapter 6

John hated Jim Moriarty. Not because he was a terrorist or a psychopath or because the man had tried to kill both he and Sherlock more than once - he hated the man because he held Sherlock’s complete attention. Like a selfish, spoiled child, Moriarty demanded Sherlock’s entire focus and, because Sherlock was more than a little similar to the consulting criminal, he gave Moriarty everything that he wanted so that they could continue ‘playing’ together. Nothing that John said or did mattered to Sherlock when Moriarty was in the picture. Sherlock’s addictive personality craved the danger and the maddening mystery of his arch nemesis - it was something that made John’s unwavering support and combat experience pale by comparison. The simmering rage between the two geniuses attracted and repulsed with equal intensity but neither one of them seemed willing to acknowledge that the root of their attraction was a facile sublimated sexual tension. John often had the uncharitable thought that if _everyone_ in this threesome just got laid once in a while, none of this maniacal posturing would have ever happened.

Yes, John loathed Moriarty partly because he knew that he’d never mean _that much_ to Sherlock and partly because their juvenile mating dance was terrorizing an entire city. 

Still, he couldn’t let Sherlock face him alone. John was too dedicated for that, and even if Sherlock only had eyes for what was in front of him, John would always have his back. But Moriarty had upped the stakes this time and Sherlock was in real danger of losing everything. Not mortal danger of course - Sherlock paid so little heed to his existence that it was pointless to threaten it - but immortal danger. His fame, his reputation, his freedom, his intellectual superiority all hung in the balance, and for the first time in his experience, John witnessed Sherlock faltering. He was aghast at his friend’s desperation.

“Sherlock, stop… just, stop!”

John grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve and pulled him out of the street where he was trying to hail a cab.

“John, let go.” Sherlock’s stare sliced through him.

“This is madness! Stop indulging him, Sherlock… stop indulging _yourself_. He’s threatening no one but you now - you and your ego. Let him have it. You have more than enough to go ‘round…”

“Let him _have it_? God, John, you’ve never been asinine before…”

“He’s just a child who loves breaking his toys, and you are his favorite one. He hasn’t thought beyond what a lovely mess he’ll make of you… what happens after that? Where will he find his kicks then? It will only escalate and who will be there to stop him after you’re gone?” John’s voice cracked a little.

“Appealing to my vanity, John? That’s not like you.”

“God, you selfish bloody twat! What else am I supposed to appeal to?” John started pacing in the street, his breath bursting from him in cold puffs. “You are a heat-seeking missile targeted on Jim Moriarty and you couldn’t give a toss about the rest of us! This is just about you and him - nothing else. So, tell me how to get through to you and I’ll prostrate myself in front of whatever’s running the show inside that cracked head of yours. I’ll do whatever I have to in order to get you to survive this mess, even if I have to drag you through it against your will.”

“I doubt that you could.”

John walked up to Sherlock and fumed. “Try me.”

Sherlock’s focus narrowed as he eyed John from head to toe and back again.

“Marry me.” He breathed.

John flinched as if he had been slapped in the face. He was so sincere, so desperate to save his friend and all Sherlock could muster was some tired form of mockery that John had never understood in the first place. If John ever needed proof of where he ranked in Sherlock’s estimation, this was it. He closed his eyes and tried to hide the hurt from his face; it wouldn’t move Sherlock anyhow.

“Sherlock…” The name came out like a curse. “That’s just great. I’ve never been more serious in my life and you decide that it’s the perfect opportunity to take the piss out of me.”

John turned away. “I don’t understand why you find that so amusing anyway.”

Moments passed and then John was snapped from his mood by the sound of a car door slamming. He turned back quickly to see Sherlock sitting in the back of a taxi. John wondered how long the two of them had been standing in the street in silence. Sherlock rolled the window down after he spoke to the driver. 

“I never found it amusing.” He said before nodding to the cabbie.

The taxi motored up the street leaving John behind. He stood in confusion wondering what he should say or do, if anything, after _that_ exit.


	7. Chapter 7

The fall had been horrible. It replayed in his head every night for months afterwards. 

_I lied to you, John._

He woke up breathless from running - running the ever-widening expanse between them - because no matter how the dream started, it always ended with John trying to catch him. Some nights he had broken legs; some times he was stuck in cement, once in a while he was an old man with a cane shuffling for all he was worth at half speed… But the worst nights were when he almost made it in time only to feel the cuff of Sherlock’s coat brush the tips of his fingers an instant before the sickening thud.

He could never understand why Sherlock had insisted that he watch. It seemed especially cruel considering that, of the two of them, only John had to live with it. Sherlock’s confession had been fleeting and disjointed, and John hadn’t believed a word of it at the time. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

_I lied to you, John. **About everything but this.**_

Sherlock always said that just before he stepped off the ledge but John could no longer remember if he had _actually_ said it or not. The more that he strained to remember, the more out of focus Sherlock became.


	8. Chapter 8

John’s right pocket vibrated under his decon smock. He wrestled with his layers, looked down at his phone and growled through his medical mask.

 _* So much of life involves submitting to a shared illusion: airport security, additive-free food, ‘trust me, I’m a doctor’…*_

Lestrade stood up from the body that they were examining, his concern made evident by the set of his eyebrows in the gap between his forensics suit and medical mask.

“Wot?”

“Nothing. My mobile stalker is back.” John keyed in a response and thumbed SEND viciously.

_\-- PISS OFF --_

“You should let me have the data unit trace him. Send some lads over to his pornography-wallpapered lair in his parents’ basement… bugger his noodle so badly he won’t shit for a week…”

“Colourful, Greg.” John’s phone buzzed again.

_* Please don’t think that the last comment was directed at you, John. I find you very trustworthy. *_

“He’s not worth it.” John huffed. “It’s bloody annoying but nothing more. He’s the last one anyway… most of the other nutters dropped off after the first year. I still get random It’s-Sherlock-I’m-alive! messages through The Science of Deduction website but an ISP back trace followed by a stern form letter from one Mycroft’s cronies usually shuts them up.” 

John looked down at his phone. “This one’s persistent though - you have to admire the dedication…”

“You could change your number…”

“I’ve done that half a dozen times. He always finds it.”

“Wow.”

“Yes, like I said - determined little prick.” John’s phone buzzed again.

_* Bored. Talk to me, John. *_

“So, what does he usually say, anyway?” Lestrade’s interest drifted back to the body at their feet.

“He’s purposefully vague. It’s usually not much of a conversation - he sends a bizarre declarative statement and I respond with something rude yet creative in kind. Sometimes I don’t respond at all.” John’s fingers halted briefly over the keypad and then began typing.

_\-- Sod off. Busy. Not interested. Being knighted by the Queen. Take your pick. --_

“Mostly, I think that he’s just a lonely git. I can sympathize with that…” John’s voice faded and Lestrade looked up at him again.

“John, he’s playing you. This sick twist is probably wanking off in a pool of his own feces while doing this - he doesn’t deserve your sympathy. Trust me, I’ve dealt with this sort before.”

John arched an eyebrow. “I think that we’d better erect some boundaries about what sort of details you can and cannot share with me about previous cases that you’ve worked, Greg. Let’s steer clear of wanking in excrement, for example…”

Lestrade shrugged.

“Besides, this guy - whoever he is - has Sherlock’s tone down cold. Sometimes, I pretend… Christ, Greg, don’t you _miss_ him?”

“Only every time I have a bloody crime that I can’t solve…” Lestrade muttered as he made a note about the body. “Sherlock is dead, John. This tosser is just tormenting you for giggles.”

John’s phone buzzed again.

_* If you are at the Palace, I hope that you are appropriately attired. Trousers are a must. Learn from my mistakes, John. *_

John tried to stifle a chuckle and failed.

“Wot is it now?”

“He asked if I was wearing pants…”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Lestrade scooped the mobile out of John’s hands and began texting with incredible speed. “We’ll set this to rights once and for all…”

“Greg! Give it here!” John grappled with Lestrade over the dead body.

Lestrade pressed SEND and then handed the phone back to John with as much smugness as eyebrows alone could convey. Almost immediately, the mobile buzzed and Lestrade grabbed it back again to read the response. John watched as the colour drained from Lestrade’s face.

“What is it? What did he say?”

“Bugger…” Lestrade breathed out slowly and handed the mobile over to John.

_* Lestrade, give the phone back to John. *_

“He can see us…” Lestrade whispered. “That’s it, John. I’m organizing a protection detail to watch you. This pisser just crossed a very illegal line.”

“Greg, don’t…”

“No arguments!” Lestrade stormed out of the forensics tent in search of an underling to bark at. The inspector didn’t take well to being humiliated.

_\-- Not very smart. Coppers are going to be all over you now. --_

John keyed the message in and felt a twinge of sadness that he would finally lose his last pretend-Sherlock. There were times when he had been happy to play along (if only in his own mind) in order to stave off the crushing loneliness. His phone buzzed back.

_* Unlikely. I’m not even in the same hemisphere. *_

Curious, thought John.

_\-- How did you know it wasn’t me? --_

_* Really, John? Tone, syntax, spelling. He texts like a 14 year-old girl. *_

_\-- How did you know WHO it was if not me? --_

John stared at his mobile, willing it to respond. When it buzzed in his hand, he nearly dropped it onto the murder victim below him.

_* Your mobile is always on your person and you would only give it up to someone you trusted. That list includes Lestrade, Mycroft, and me. Given the quick back and forth between the tones of your texts, you are most likely working a case with Lestrade and oversharing about your personal life as you are wont to do. It’s so simple it isn’t even worthy of calling it deduction. *_

“Arrogant twat.” John mumbled as he keyed in his response.

_\-- I don’t trust Mycroft --_

_* No, but he has most likely cloned your mobile. He doesn’t trust you either. However he does not text like a teenaged girl. *_

John was about to reply when he realized that he was treating his stalker like the real Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade was right - this guy was tormenting him. He had a sudden vision of a particularly smart underachiever dancing around his parents’ basement in his tighty-whiteys hooting with glee at his success. John ripped off his surgical mask and thumbed through the phone’s menu until he had erased all of his messages and call history. He’d get a new phone tomorrow.

The mobile buzzed again in his shaking hand.

_* What’s the case? I could consult. *_

_\-- No need. It was Miss Scarlet in the library with a withering remark. Case closed. --_

_* I miss you, John. This is no fun without you. *_

John stared at the message for ages. Something glowed warm and bright in a dull, forgotten corner of him only to be quickly blown out by his familiar numbness. He had honed it perfectly over the past twenty-six months - so perfectly that it had become an automatic response whenever his sense of hope got out of hand. He closed his eyes and sighed. If only…

_\-- Sherlock would never say that. --_

_* People change. I’ve had a long time to consider it and I assure you that the statement is irrefutably true. *_

John stared at the mobile screen and then quickly departed the forensics tent. It felt as though this conversation should be conducted away from the dozen lab techs and crime scene investigators who only had eyes for the corpse in their care. John’s hand vibrated once he was outside breathing in large gulps of brackish London air.

_* I can understand your suspicion - you always had a hard time believing my sincerity. I only ever lied to you about lying to you, John. Ironically, that lie was the one thing that you accepted without question. Maybe that should offend me. *_

_\-- Are you offended? --_

_* No. Forgiveness is at the heart of devotional obsession. Isn’t it? *_

John started to shake all over. No stalker had ever ticked so many boxes, gotten so many details _just_ right enough to convince him of the impossible. This guy was hitting too close to home to be just another pranking hacker. John frowned and threw down the gauntlet that had tripped up all of the other pseudo-Sherlocks in the past.

_\-- What was our last conversation about? --_

Everyone knew that Sherlock had called John before he jumped, but John never considered that call _a conversation_ \- it was just Sherlock clearing the decks. John always had another moment in mind when he asked this question.

_* You asked me to give up my ego and walk away from Moriarty. You were right about that, John - you were right and I couldn’t see it. Then I asked you to marry me and you dismissed it as a joke just like all the previous proposals. But I was serious. Every time. *_

John let loose a colourful and creative string of invective while stomping about and kicking stones this way and that along the shallow bank of the Thames. When he ran out of adjectives, he growled and considered chucking his mobile into the murky depths as so many pissed off sods before him had in an attempt to get away from something truly irritating. He looked up the shore to see if anyone had witnessed his crack up when he realized that it was almost the exact same spot where he had pronounced the poison victim years earlier. It was the spot where Sherlock had originally proposed to him.

“He’s an eerie little bugger.” He murmured to himself before keying in his response.

_\-- WHY? --_

_* You are the perfect compliment to me. Right from the beginning I knew that you would be the only person that I would ever truly need. Making that bond permanent seemed appropriate, although I take it that you never saw it that way. *_

_\-- SHERLOCK, I WILL HATE YOU FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE FOR THIS. --_

 

Okay, John, that’s a bit over the top. You _are_ smiling, after all…

 

_* You believe me. That’s a place to start. *_

The warmth in John’s chest surged up over his practiced numbness. Screw just surviving and making it through. He could have lived a long life as boring, numb John Watson. He could have chucked his mobile. He could have moved to Sussex and set up a family practice. He could have learned to garden. But that was a minute ago. Now, he was anticipating near-death experiences, horror, violence and all kinds of illegal activity. He was hoping for adventure, companionship, trust, respect… and he supposed that he would get most of that if he played the odds correctly. The warmth turned into a thrill and the thrill felt like electricity crawling along his skin. He was anxious to move, to get started…

_\-- So, now what? --_


	9. Chapter 9

Midday sun beat the marketplace into submission. Dark-skinned natives in pastel robes sweated and yelled and threw their hands in the air as if daring the sun to vaporize them. Commerce would not wait for the shade. An endless parade of livestock, carts and antique cars kicked up a fine dust that covered everything in sight; he could taste it coating the inside of his mouth with every breath. He tried not to consider how many unsavory particulates he had ingested while on this continent.

He leaned as close into the clay hut as he could manage. His frame just fit into the sliver of shade afforded him by the building’s placement and its meager awning. Even in local dress and with his face covered, he stood out. He was just far too tall for this country, and he couldn’t do anything about his eye colour. Shadows were often his only refuge, and, given the heat, they were also prudent. His eyes narrowed as he focused on typing out his statement. When he pressed the symbol key, he did so hard enough to produce three question marks instead of one, giving his statement an uncharacteristic urgency that he nonetheless felt. He decided to let the grammatical mistake stand and sent his message.

The marketplace ignored him, as he ignored it. Once you’ve seen a fight break out over goat prices, it ceases to amuse. His attention was time zones away on the banks of a river under a soggy, grey sky. He was waiting on a response from a place as wet and boring as this place was bright and unpredictable. He was waiting for a man to tell him which way to go. When the response finally came, he couldn’t help but laugh out loud and place the tips of his fingers over the words on the screen.

“Good man.” He murmured and then secreted his mobile into the folds of his robe.

He stepped out of the shadow and felt the heaviness of the day’s heat settle across his shoulders. He moved quickly into the crowd where he stood a full head and a half above everyone else. Heat waves shimmered from the baked earth and the press of bodies all grasping for fruit and wine and trinkets and roasted goat meat. Despite his obvious strangeness, he melted into the scene until, passing through a heat mirage before a stand of brass house wares, he disappeared like a grain of sand in the desert.


End file.
